Pirates
by TheInvisibleGurlz
Summary: John gives Sherlock a birthday present. Currently a one-shot but could turn into a multi-chapter fic. Just puppy/doggy goodness! I don't own Sherlock. please review!
1. Blackbeard

**Pirates**

**A.N.: This is my first attempt at Sherlock Fanfiction. Fluff and feels ahead, so READ AT YOUR OWN RISK! Enjoy!**

Sherlock looked up briefly from his (John's) computer when he heard the door open and shut. Judging by the way that the door had shut at a reasonable volume, not too loud, not too soft, he deduced that John was back from his shopping. As he heard the clomping up the staircase, he also deduced that he was carrying something heavy, probably something for him. Otherwise, he would have asked for help so as not to jostle his bad shoulder or Mrs. Hudson's hip. He looked up again and raised a critical eyebrow when the man in question walked through the door, large, odd-shaped package being placed on the floor. He had asked for nothing on a holiday as superficial as a birthday. Then the parcel rustled slightly.

*_Independent motion._

_* Sound of breathing._

_*Parcel in the shape of a dog crate._

_*Black hairs on John's clothes._

_*Covered, not wrapped._

_*Smell of dog._

Everything lined up perfectly in his mind. His mouth dropped open and he just stood there for a minute in pure shock, eyes welling up.

John, seeing that his flatmate had already deduced the contents of the gift, removed the bow-clad towel, revealing a black Irish setter pup. He then opened the door, letting the creature to run forth and the dog to pad curiously out of its shelter.

John grinned as Sherlock played with the puppy, laying on his back and letting the canine stand on top of him and lick his face. He noticed that the dog was licking tears of joy off the man's cheeks, which made John grin all the wider; but not nearly as wide and happily as Sherlock himself was.

The good doctor had been secretly, which was no easy task, conversing with Mycroft in order to find out what kind of dog Sherlock had had. Mycroft didn't know, however, that he planned on _buying_ the dog, albeit in a different color.

"So, what're you going to name him?" he asked, looking fondly down at man and man's best friend. Sherlock had chosen to sit back up with the setter in his lap, still licking his cheeks. He held the dog as if it were the only thing that would keep him alive. The setter kept its paws on his chest, whining gleefully as if crying itself.

"Blackbeard," he replied without further explanation.

"Blackbeard?" John echoed.

"Yes." John elected to let the matter alone.

That night, Sherlock allowed Blackbeard to sleep on his bed, which John was secretly a little jealous of.

_Best Birthday EVER!_ Sherlock decided, before promptly falling asleep, a warm dog in the crook of his knees.

**A.N.: Not bad, huh? I **_**love**_** this show, and I got this idea in my head and ran with it. If enough people request it, I might even do more chapters with Blackbeard going on cases with them! If you think I should do case chapters, be sure to give me a suggestion for a case. Thank you for your time and GOD BLESS!**


	2. Training Days

**Training Days**

**A.N.: So, this is the second chapter to Pirates, obviously. I'd figured that if Blackbeard **_**were**_** to aid Sherlock and Watson on their antics, then he'd need to be trained. This'll just be quick snippets of the evolution of his training, since I don't want to bore you guys. Enjoy!**

"NO, bad boy, you are _not_ to soil the carpet. _Bad boy!_" John heard from up the stairs, accompanied by a grinding noise and whining. Rather than heading up to check on his email as he planned, he elected to stay with Mrs. Hudson for the time being.

_Three weeks later_

"Good boy!" Sherlock praised. John smiled as Blackbeard licked him and barked, tail wagging so hard that his behind wagged with it. Sherlock permitted them to play for a few more minutes before picking up the puppy and retreating to his room with the dog. John, knowing that was his cue, went down and hid in the dusty, crappy smelling hole that was 221C.

Five minutes after he hid, he heard Sherlock say "Go on, go find John," and he smiled, trying as hard as he could to breathe as silently as possible. Not one minute later, he heard scratching and panting at the door, followed by high-pitched barks. The door opened and Blackbeard made a bee-line for the doctor, prompting more smiles and petting.

_Four months later_

A dozen men stood in a line-up, all of them innocent. For now, anyways.

John observed as Sherlock held out a dirty shirt to Blackbeard, the setter sniffing it curiously. Then the door was opened and Blackbeard darted out, sniffing each of the men in turn. On the fifth man, he sat down and barked for his master.

They had found D.I. Lestrade.

_January 6__th_

"So that dog's just gonna follow you around then, is he?" Greg asked, eyeing the black setter. One year after getting the dog, and Blackbeard had flourished into a fine, crime solving canine.

"The American police have K-9 units, why shouldn't the consulting detective of Scotland Yard?" Sherlock replied, not looking at either the detective (broadly speaking) or the Irish setter.

"Maybe because he could contaminate the crime scene?" Lestrade suggested.

"You do realize it's _Sherlock_ who trained him, right?" John interjected. Lestrade stepped in front of the trio.

"If he contaminates the scene in _any way_, he waits outside," he warned. Sherlock nodded and stepped into the house containing the body. Upon entering the room, he immediately began inspecting the cadaver, while Blackbeard commenced sniffing around the unfamiliar room. He seemed particularly interested in one of the corners.

"He's mid-thirties, dyed brown hair, preference to semi-permanent dyes, naturally blonde, he'd just come back from a night out and taken a cab. He prefers wine to beer or liquor, but he'd had a bit too much of the strong stuff when he died. It was murder, he didn't have enough alcohol in his system when he was dispatched. The killer used a blunt instrument on the back of the neck, most likely a cricket bat, which was taken back with him," he listed off, standing tall. "Why remains a mystery. The victim is a nobody; an accountant who isn't very pleased with their trade. Boring." Suddenly, baying and barking was heard from Blackbeard's corner. He was franticly running around a couch and howling.

"He's going bloody mad!" Sally exclaimed. Sherlock pulled out the cushions, revealing nothing but the bottom of the couch.

"Then again, he could be hiding something," Sherlock added after ripping open the cushions to find cocaine in one and £1,000,000 in cash in the other. Sherlock smiled and scratched his beloved hound between the ears.

**A.N.: So, yeah. I really want to continue this story with different cases, but I haven't the foggiest as to what those cases should be, so I want YOUR suggestions! Drop me a review saying what you'd like me to write, and I'll try to get it written. Thank you for your time, and GOD BLESS!**


	3. Cold

**Cold**

**A.N.: MoonstarWorld suggested this piece. If any of you have a case for me, please let me know. Enjoy!**

John smiled fondly as he approached Baker St. Faceless strangers passed him by, none of them of any sort of note. Or so he thought.

Someone tapped him lightly on the shoulder, gaining his attention. Before he knew what was going on, he felt a stabbing pain in his shoulder. Looking there, he spotted, vaguely, a needle hanging out of his arm. His vision bleared afterward, and he only distantly felt himself being carried away.

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"Oi, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson's sweet, delicate voice came from the door. "I haven't seen John since yesterday, where's he gone?"

"He's probably at work," Sherlock replied. Beside him, Blackbeard whined and looked up at his master, looking almost as if he'd raised an eyebrow.

"No, I just called his boss, he never clocked in." Sherlock raised an eyebrow and got up from his seat. Throwing off his silk robe, he retreated to his room to change. Two minutes later, he emerged in his usual suit. He put on his coat as he strolled out the door, Blackbeard at his heels.

He consulted with everyone in his homeless network who was on Baker St. Only one claimed to have seen John. She said that a few men had picked him up in a car. Panic clenched at Sherlock's stone-cold heart. He inspected the area thoroughly, but the kidnappers were thorough in taking any sort of evidence they could with them, and too many people had passed by to make any decent deductions as to which car they might've gotten into. Crestfallen, he and Blackbeard clomped back to the flat.

He'd only just walked in the door when the phone rang. He raised another eyebrow. No one called him on his landline. Picking up, his heart sank into his stomach.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes," the thick Russian accent drawled over the phone. "We are the ones who have kidnapped Dr. John Watson. If you wish to see him again, then bring one billion dollars to this address." The ransom address was listed off, as well as the typical instructions: come at this time, come alone, don't think of calling the police, everything you'd expect in a kidnapping.

He went onto the computer and found the address. Sitting down in his favorite chair, he went to his mind palace to map out any known quarters of Russian criminals.

Mrs. Hudson crept in a moment later, watching with bored interest as Sherlock waved his hands in front of his face, over and over again. She had no idea what Sherlock was seeing, but his tea was going cold when he suddenly looked up again, snapping back to reality, and said "Warehouses."

"What about them?" Mrs. Hudson asked, not frightening the man in the least.

"John's been kidnapped by Russians. The ransom drop off was in near Shoreditch park, 27 minutes from here. The Warehouses are right next to it. John will be there," he elaborated, getting up and alerting the dog.

"You're getting him back then?"

"Of course. I'd be lost without my blogger." With that, he and Blackbeard swept out of the room, the latter harnessed up and the former with dark sunglasses. He called for a cab, and the cabbie didn't question what he thought was a service dog and his blind master.

"32 Eagle Wharf Road," Sherlock commanded, smirking inwardly. The cabbie was so thick that he didn't even notice that Blackbeard hadn't acted the way a service dog would in the event of a cab. The cabbie drove off.

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John groaned slightly as he woke up, tied down to a chair with a throbbing headache. He assessed his injuries; a sprained arm, several bruised ribs, and a bloody head wound pounded.

He hadn't had these injuries last time he was awake, they had beaten him while he was asleep. Rage boiled inside him at the thought of such cowardice.

Blearily, he heard his kidnappers' thick accents, calling someone. He barely registered his name and Sherlock's, but he did. Although it hurt, he mustered up enough energy to smirk. These guys were in for it.

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It had taken slightly longer than expected to get to the warehouses, but he finally did. The minute the cab was paid for and out of sight, he unharnessed Blackbeard and hid the harness, he might need it again. He let the two of them in a back door. There was no blood on the floor, so John hadn't been injured when he was dragged by here, meaning any hope of finding him himself were out the window. Thankfully, he'd come prepared.

Pulling John's shirt out of his pocket, he held it out to Blackbeard, who sniffed it before sitting down, letting his master know that he had the scent and was waiting for orders.

"Go find John," he whispered and the dog was off like a shot, dashing over the uncarpeted floors, remarkable silently. The dog stopped at a corner and looked back at the man, waiting for him. Sherlock peeked around the corner, spotting two armed men. He pulled John's gun out of his other pocket and disarmed the men, still pointing the gun at them. Blackbeard then charged and half mauled the poor guys. They got what they deserved for taking his doctor. He contacted Scotland Yard and gave them the address and circumstances of the kidnapping telling them to come down ASAP. He smiled as he eyed Blackbeard licking the bloodied face of his comrade.

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John jolted awake when he felt a sudden weight on his legs. It only took him a moment to realize that Blackbeard had found him. It only took the dog a moment to commence licking away the blood on his face.

"Oh, hey boy, hey," he said, smiling widely, despite the pain it caused.

He felt the ropes around his wrists and arms loosening for being cut, and he immediately began to rub the faithful dog, who continued to lick his face and wag his tail. The police arrived, as did an ambulance, and everything was taken care of. Blackbeard hardly left John's side, as did Sherlock.

**A.N.: Not ending with a bang, I'll tell you. I'm sorry if I offended any Russians, people who work in warehouses, or actual warehouses (Which I'd be very surprised to see reading this). If you have an idea for a future case, then please let me know so I can write it. Uploads might be kind of slow, since I'd like to try to be as complex and detailed as possible, in an effort to match the show and the fandom. Thank you for your time, and GOD BLESS!**


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